The Watchers (33 page)

‘Let go of me! Fucking let go!’

Her screams like a thousand mad shrieks in a deep cave.

She looked for a face, only seeing black.

‘No!’

She pulled free, pounded down with her fists.

‘You piece of shit! You fucking piece of shit!’

Kicking, clawing, pounding harder. Her screams feeding her blows.

‘I’ll fucking kill you! You touch me again and I’ll fucking kill you!’

‘
Non, c’est—
’

‘Shut up, you piece of shit! I’ll fucking kill you!’

‘
—le guet, c’est le guet
!’

She held her fists. Her eyes still blind with terror, seeing only a dark silhouette gathered around a spark of fire, hearing a voice, almost whispering: ‘
C’est le guet, c’est le guet
.’ The voice rising and echoing and floating away with the sound of her screams. She looked up, saw warm light moving over four close-in walls of stone, the high ceiling disappearing into shadows.

‘Where am I?’

… where am i, am i, am i …

‘In the cathedral.’

… in the cathedral, the cathedral, the cathedral …

She looked down, saw someone in a long black overcoat and a black floppy hat, his body hovering over a burning lantern as if protecting it.

‘The cathedral … How did I … Who are you?’

He turned slowly. She saw his face and the lanternlight reflecting in his eyes.

‘
Je m’appelle Marc Rochat. Je suis le guet de la cathédrale de Lausanne
.’

twenty

‘You? You’re the guy in the bell tower, with the lantern? I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it.’

Rochat watched her sink to the cold floor. Her eyes going somewhere else, not even noticing the blood on her hands, on her face. Her hands uncurling from fists, her tears turning to laughter, but Rochat knew it was sad laughter. He listened to her voice echo through the stone chamber.

… don’t believe it, don’t believe it, don’t believe it …

He pulled a handkerchief from his overcoat, leaned towards her. Katherine shrieked, punching him back to the wall.

‘Don’t touch me! Don’t fucking touch me!’

‘Shhh, they’ll hear you.’

… they’ll hear you, hear you, hear you …

She held her breath.

Rochat whispered in his quietest voice:

‘I saw them. The men who came from the bad shadows.’

‘The what?’

‘I saw them from the tower. A tall one and a small one. I saw them.’

… i saw them, i saw them, i saw them …

‘The men, you saw them?’

‘Shhhh, whisper. If they hear you, they’ll know you’re hiding in the cathedral.’

She quieted.

Bitter cold pierced the quiet. She shivered.

‘Jesus, I’m freezing.’

… i’m freezing, i’m freezing, i’m freezing …

She jumped hearing the echo of her own voice.

‘Who’s here? Is somebody else here?’

Rochat thought about it. Maybe it would scare her and make her run away to tell her about all the teasing shadows and Otto the Brave Knight and the skeletons under the floor of the nave.

‘Just my cat.’

‘Your cat?’

‘My cat.’

… my cat, my cat, my cat …

‘Jesus …’

Katherine pulled her knees under her chin and buried her face in her hands, then her hands curled into fists again as she chewed at her bloodstained knuckles. She cried quietly to herself, Rochat didn’t move. He watched blood ooze from the cut on her face, it didn’t look deep but it was still oozing. He listened for footsteps beyond the door.

He heard rain dripping from the high-above turrets.

He heard wind blow away the rain.

‘They didn’t come to the cathedral.’

‘Who?’

‘Those men.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I can hear footsteps from faraway and Maman told me about bad shadows, how they look like men. They didn’t come to the cathedral, I can tell.’

Katherine leaned her head back to the wall, looking at the shadows in the high corners of the stone chamber. ‘I must be losing my mind.’

… my mind, my mind, my mind …

Rochat watched her.

The blond hair, the face.

It was her, but she didn’t look the same. She looked raggedy and scared, her legs and bare feet covered with icy slush. She shivered with cold.

‘What am I going to do? What the fuck am I going to do?’

‘I have a telephone. You can call a policeman, if you want.’

‘No! Not the police! Please, no police!’

Rochat held up his hand to quiet her. ‘
D’accord
.’

She dropped her head in her arms.

‘Jesus, I want to go home, I just want to go home.’

… want to go home, to go home, go home …

Rochat heard something in her voice, something very sad, like the bad shadows had crushed her wings. So if the bad shadows came to the cathedral nave to find her, she wouldn’t be able to fly away.

‘I know a place you can hide. It’s warm and there’s a bed. You can hide till you’re better and then you can go home.’

‘What?’

‘No one will know you’re there, because you won’t be hiding in the cathedral, you’ll be hiding in the belfry.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The belfry’s profane, it’s not consecrated like the rest of the cathedral. So if they come to find you in the cathedral, you won’t be there. Do you want to see?’

Rochat pulled himself to his feet, he tugged at an iron latch and opened the door to the tower. She saw his boots, the twisted right foot, his small crooked frame draped in a long black overcoat. She panicked as he turned to leave.

‘Wait, where are you going?’

‘To the belfry. There’re lots of steps up the tower and they go around and around and it’s dark. But I brought my lantern so you can find your way.’

The piano man played a slow blues riff. The chanteuse picked up the microphone and crooned along, glass of champers in her hand. Gone way past three, mesdames et messieurs, drink up and get the hell out. Nice accompaniment to stuffing Yuriev’s photos back into the manila envelope. Was proving difficult. Envelope somewhat smaller than before. Harper held the last photo of Yuriev’s haggard face looking dead into the camera. As if he knew it was over and there was nowhere to run.

‘Getting to know the feeling, mate.’

‘
Pardon
, Monsieur Harper.’

He looked up, Mutt and Jeff standing over him.

‘Hello, lads, time to die?’

‘We believe it’s time to escort you to the hotel.’

‘Hotel, right. Hang on a tick, what happened to my flat?’

‘Inspector Gobet has arranged for you to stay at the Hôtel de la Paix for the time being.’

‘For your protection, you understand.’

‘We have a car waiting.’

They reached under his arms. Harper pulled away.

‘Oh no, you don’t. I’ll get up on my own and I’ll walk on my own,
s’il vous plaît
.’

‘Are you sure you won’t fall?’

‘We wouldn’t wish you to hurt yourself.’

‘Of course fucking not. You boyos have to keep me alive for the fucking psychokillers, don’t you?’ Harper pushed against the table and slowly rose to his feet. He wobbled but didn’t fall. ‘God save the bloody Queen.’

Mutt had Harper’s mackintosh at the ready, Jeff settled the bill with a quiet word with the bartender. The bartender bowed to Harper.

‘I hope you enjoyed your evening, Monsieur Harper.’

‘Cheers. Hang on. You’re that polite bartender from the other night. What’s your name?’

‘Stephan, monsieur.’

‘Stephan, that’s right. You’re a friend of hers aren’t you?’

‘Monsieur?’

‘Miss Taylor. You’re her friend.’

‘Mademoiselle Taylor is an acquaintance of my girlfriend, monsieur. And I have the pleasure of serving her when she visits the Palace.’

‘Then you tell her, Miss Taylor I’m talking about, you tell her I was here till the bitter end. For our date, tonight. No, wait, last night, we had a date.’

‘Of course, monsieur.’

‘No, no. Not that kind of date. A few drinks and stroll around the cathedral date, that’s all.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, monsieur.’

‘I’m glad you’re glad.’

‘I will give Mademoiselle Taylor the message.
Bonne nuit
.’

‘
Bonne nuit
… Wait, what’s your name?’

‘Stephan.’

‘Stephan, right.’

A taxi waited on the street. White Merc glowing red from the Christmas lights dangling and bouncing off the hotel façade above the bar. Harper waved his arms in indignation.

‘Hey, those Christmas lights are still broken. What happened to the construction brigade? What’s wrong with this country anyway? Falling apart at the steams, seams.’

‘You needn’t concern yourself with the Christmas decorations, Monsieur Harper. The workers will have it put to rights by the time you wake up.’

Mutt and Jeff dumped Harper into the back seat.

‘Not coming for the ride, lads? I’m in the gravest danger, remember?’

‘Undercover operatives are posted at the hotel, Mr Harper.’

‘Your driver is one of them.’

Harper caught the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

‘Let me guess, another ex-Swiss Guard sniper. Hey, good enough for the Pope, good enough for me. Forward, he cried from the rear.’

The taxi pulled away from the kerb.

Harper stared out of the window.

Wet asphalt, clumps of white snow on the pavements, streets devoid of life.

Toothbrush. Need a toothbrush.

‘Sorry, mate, could we swing by my flat? I need my toothbrush. And toothpaste, I need toothpaste.’

‘I’ve already been to your flat and prepared a valise. It’s in the boot.’

‘You went in my flat without my permission?’

‘I went in your flat under orders from Inspector Gobet.’

‘Ah, Inspector Gobet of the iron fist strikes again. That’s what I like about the coppers in this place, always looking out for you.’

The driver crossed to Avenue Benjamin-Constant and up the hill towards the old city. Downtown Lausanne gave way to a wide view of the lake. The taxi slowed to cross the road to the Hôtel de la Paix. Harper leaned over the front seat for a better look, looked swell. Seven floors, all the rooms with balconies overlooking the lake, all the balconies with yellow awnings. The taxi slammed to a stop, Harper’s face went into the back of the front seat – ‘Shite!’ – a black Ferrari, speeding round a corner, missing them by inches. Harper looked back, watched the car roar through Place Saint-François and up Rue du Grand-Chêne.

‘After him, officer. Looked like the bad guys to me.’

The driver eased across the road, pulling into the hotel entrance.

‘Surveillance cameras have already recorded the licence plate. The car is being traced and profiled as we speak.’

‘And let ’em get away? I’m telling you there’s ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy psychokillers on the loose in this town. Like to nail night clerks to walls. Seen it with my own eyes. Must have words with the Inspector, get you lads straight. And let me tell you, I saw a fucking newspaper for the first time in … ever such a lot and, oh boy, no more nicely-nicely in this place. It’s kill now and ask bloody questions later. You Swiss coppers need to get with the times.’

The driver switched off the engine, turned to the back seat.

‘Do you wish me to call the porter to help with your valise, Monsieur Harper? Or will you and your smart arse manage by yourselves?’

She was sleeping as soundly as Monsieur Booty, who was sleeping next to her on the bed.

Just before, she laid her head on the pillow and Monsieur Booty jumped down from his hiding place behind the radio and introduced himself by sticking his cold nose in her face. Rochat told her the cat’s name was Monsieur Booty.

‘Hello, Monsieur Booty,’ she said and she closed her eyes.

The beast quickly took advantage of the situation and made himself comfortable in the curves of her duvet-covered body. Rochat sat on a stool and watched her. On her stomach, with one leg curled and her hands tucked under her chin. He could smell her skin in the circulating warmth of the loge, she smelled like Marseilles soap.

He took off his hat and laid it on the table.

He sat on a stool, scratched his head.

He stared at the lantern flame and thought about beforetimes.

When she first came into the loge, she stood in the middle of the room and didn’t speak. She held her arms tight across her body, still shivering with cold. Rochat stood with his back to the door, afraid to move, afraid he might scare her away. Slowly, as the warmth of the loge seeped into her bones, she became conscious of her surroundings. The odd shape of the room, the wood walls set between criss-cross timbers, the cock-eyed ceiling high above her head. Then the little bed fitted sideways between the timbers at the end of the room, and the many candles that filled the room with comforting light. Rochat waited for her to say something, but she only stood still for the longest time until:

‘What a very strange place this is.’

Rochat waited for her to say something else but she didn’t. He set his lantern on the table, the flame still burning.

‘They built the loge between the timbers. That’s why it looks funny.’

She rubbed her arms.

‘I’m so cold.’

‘I’ll turn up the heater, and I have a sleeping bag under the bed. It’s better than my wool blankets and you can open it like a duvet. Do you want to see?’

‘Yeah.’

‘
D’accord
.’

It was only six steps to the bed but after two steps, with the small table protruding from the wall, she was standing in the way. He nodded to the bed.

‘I have to go that way.’

She pressed herself against the table, Rochat squeezed by without touching her. He opened the cabinet under the bed, found the sleeping bag. He undid the zip that made it a duvet. He laid it on the bed, squeezed by her again, retaking his position at the door.

She stepped slowly up to the bed. She opened her soaking bathrobe, let it fall to the floor. Rochat spun quickly around, his nose touching the door of the loge. He waited till it was quiet. He peeked over his shoulder, she was sitting on the bed, her naked body wrapped in the duvet.